


Honeyed Wine

by Antarc



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Robin Buckley/Heather Holloway - Freeform, Baker!Billy, Getting Together, Harringrove Holiday Exchange 2020, Hurt Steve Harrington, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28144359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antarc/pseuds/Antarc
Summary: While he recovers from an injury at Robin's farm and helps run her market stall, Steve unexpectedly reunites with his old high school rival. Billy, once a tough asshole who got into weekly fights, is now a proud owner of the best bakery in town and mans the stall right next to Steve's- with the best croissants Steve has ever eaten.Old tensions still run high, while buried attraction finally comes to the surface.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 17
Kudos: 80
Collections: Harringrove Holiday Exchange 2020





	Honeyed Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peachypunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachypunk/gifts).



> Happy Holiday Exchange!
> 
> Dear peachypunk, I hope I managed to capture the essence of your request, that you have fun reading this and wish you a lovely holiday season!
> 
> ~*~
> 
> Additional, _massive_ spoilery content warning and additional tags in the end notes. No sexual or overly graphic violence or character death!
> 
> This fic is very much supposed to be a happy surprise for peachypunk, so if you don't want the ending spoiled, I recommend not reading further than the content warning.

It’s the windows rattling from a gust of wind that wake Steve in a cold sweat from anxious sleep. His body rises from the mattress on pure instinct as he becomes more aware of his surroundings. His hand reaches out to the bedside table. His fingertips find leather.

A dark, unfamiliar room. There’s the shape of a dresser and a table by the windows. He can make out a bookshelf and a sofa by the door. Finally, he remembers where he is when he inhales the smell of wood and freshly washed bed linen. This is Robin’s place.

It takes a while until his heart no longer feels like it’s beating out of his chest and he struggles to calm down his breathing. He shivers underneath the covers. It’s cold.

“Fuck.” Shaky hands run through his hair.

Slowly, he sinks back into his pillows, turns onto his side and then his belly until his face is hidden in soft fabric. It soaks up tears that come unbidden, fueled by remnants of an incomprehensible nightmare filled with the glint of metal and needles and blood.

He can’t control when they come, he knows that. 

Healing isn’t a linear process, his therapist has told him over and over again. Steve has to remind himself to be grateful for the progress he’s already made. That he still has friends who have helped him so much. That he still has a place to call home and a future to look forward to. 

His shoulder aches.

An eternity passes in between moments where he dozes off and jolts awake before his phone alarm finally drags him back into the land of the living with a groan. 

The cheerful melody he’s set it to makes him get out of bed to turn it off and continues to echo in his head while he takes a perfunctory shower in his tiny en-suite bathroom. Then he stumbles downstairs once he’s carefully dressed himself. 

“Ready for your first market shift?” Robin greets him from where she sleepily squints at him from in front of the coffee machine. She looks just as barely awake as Steve feels, wrapped in a cardigan while her hair is a disheveled mess. The sight makes him want to give her a hug.

“I guess. You know this really isn’t my time of day.” While he talks, he makes his way to the fridge. Robin’s notoriously incapable of cooking breakfast, he’s learned. She’s decent enough at cooking, but without caffeine in her system she’ll burn eggs and bacon into a dark crisp. 

So it’s either Steve or Heather who takes charge of the stove. He doesn’t mind. This way, he gets a front seat to prepare the fresh eggs Robin already picked up from the coop when she let out their chickens. 

It’s only been a month at the farm, but it already feels like Steve has been there for longer. While he takes out milk, cheese and tomatoes and then turns on the stove so he can get started on heating up the pan, Robin moves out of her vegetative state to turn on the radio. 

She switches the station from Heather’s preferred Top 40 choice to their guilty pleasure Country station. It’s another one of these small things that makes Steve feel more settled after his nightmare. The fact that both he and Robin share a feeling of shameful coziness just from listening to Dolly Parton in the morning.

At least Heather has to get up and be out of the house earlier for her shift at the bakery today, so they can avoid her teasing.

While humming along to the radio, Steve collects a tiny bundle of chives from the pot by the windowsill. He cuts the tomatoes in half and the chives into small pieces, then cracks a couple eggs into a bowl, adds a splash of milk and a pinch of salt, a crack of pepper from the grinder and whisks everything together with a fork he’s grabbed from the cutlery drawer. 

The coffee machine sputters and fills the kitchen with the invigorating smell of freshly brewed coffee.

“Omelette or scrambled eggs,” he asks, a familiar joke between them by now. He adds a splash of oil to the now hot pan. Robin grins.

“French omelette.” 

“Too bad!” Steve chuckles and dumps his egg mixture into the pan, fluffs everything up while Robin pulls out two plates, doles out tomato halves and another fork. Once he’s melted the cheese just right and everything still looks creamy, he splits the scrambled eggs into two big portions for both of them. Sprinkles them with chives and his own tomatoes with some salt and pepper.

The moment he sits down, it’s like the last remnants of his nightmare melt away. There’s food. The coffee’s just finished. There’s good company. He hasn’t been this safe and free from loneliness in a long time.

And all it’s taken to get him there is to lose everything. Figures.

~*~

The air is filled with a humid cold that makes Steve’s shoulder ache until he feels like he can barely lift his arm. He doesn’t want to complain about it to Robin while they set up the stall, though.

“Don’t forget to do the tent last when you pack up,” she reminds him. “If it starts raining, you want to keep yourself and everything else dry as long as possible before I come pick you up.” They both look up, to grey cloud cover that occasionally breaks up from the wind. 

Small glimpses of blue sky peek through tears in the clouds. A small reminder that somewhere far above, the sun still shines.

“Okay. I hope it doesn’t actually start raining. Do you think it’s gonna get any less windy at least?” 

He knows he sounds whiny. 

It’s just a bit much all of a sudden. He’s used to sitting in a warm office, working through budgets and bills. The last time he got anywhere close to customer service was when he had to entertain guests for his parents. And now he has six hours ahead of him manning a market stall on his own.

Robin’s unimpressed expression and tone tell him she sees right through him. “Don’t worry so much, Dingus. You got this. Just text me if there’s an issue.”

She helps him arrange their products and price labels- jars of creamy gold honey and fruit jams, handmade soap shaped like honeycombs and bees. A big pot on a portable stove with a crate of alcohol-free mulled wine next to it. 

At first, Steve thinks the stall will end up looking like a mess with all these different products piled on the table. After they’ve wound fairy lights around the tent and hung up a cute handmade sign with a bee on it front and center, their wares get neatly arranged. Now, it looks charming instead.

And then to their left someone noisily sets down a table in the spot next to them. Startled out of admiring their handiwork, Steve jumps at the loud clank of the table being roughly shoved into place. There’s a tent all of a sudden next to them, apparently erected in record time while they’ve been busy arranging wares. 

The guy - just judging by the noises he makes - grunts through dragging crates and display cases out of his van, piling them next to his table. 

There’s parking spots right behind their row, a luxury Robin has told him only afforded to those who’ve snatched up spots during reservations as fast as possible. Noisy Guy is certainly making use of his space.

He’s got a nice ass, Steve will give him that, though. Broad shoulders. The hood of his jacket is drawn over his head, so it’s impossible to tell how old he is. 

Just as he’s about to ask Robin about him, Noisy Guy rises and turns in their direction.

Steve’s mouth drops open.

“Holy shit. Billy Hargrove?”

It really is him! There’s confusion on his face that quickly melts into recognition. Then Hargrove’s expression curdles. 

“Harrington?! What the fuck are you doing here?” 

Steve reels back a little at the amount of animosity in Billy’s voice. 

Sure, they weren’t on good terms back when they finished high school. Probably got into a fight every couple of weeks even during senior year, if Steve remembers correctly.  
He hasn’t seen Billy since he completely vanished from their hometown right after graduation, though, and somehow he still looks at Steve like he’s a second away from punching him. Again.

“I could ask you the same,” he sputters, then turns towards Robin, who’s been watching the entire interaction with a shit-eating grin. “You didn’t tell me Billy Hargrove was running the stall right next to yours!”

“Well, I wanted to see the look on _both_ of your faces at your reunion.” She sounds awfully smug. “And look how amazing that turned out.”

“What the hell, Buckley,” Billy complains. “So that mystery friend of yours you’ve taken in is Harrington?”

For a moment, Steve looks at both of them in bewilderment. How does Billy know about Robin taking in a friend- him?

The smell from the crates finally hits him and it clicks. Mouth watering, delicious aroma of freshly baked dough. Heather’s job. The one at what she calls ‘the best bakery in town’. The bakery run by a friend of hers.

“You’re the one who makes those amazing croissants!” he interrupts whatever staring contest has been going on between Robin and Billy. Something a lot less hostile flashes over Billy’s face. Like Steve’s caught him off-guard as well.

“Uh. Yeah. Most of this is made by me.” He gestures towards the crates, almost awkward now. It’s weird, to think Billy could act bashful. 

The Billy Steve used to know was all aggressive confidence, be it fake or real. Sure, the guy in front of him still has the same face. A similar stance, like he’s ready to fight. And yet, he’s also a baker. A guy who once beat Steve’s face in apparently now makes the most delicious croissants Steve has ever tasted.

“That’s. Wow. I can’t believe I’ve been going to your bakery for weeks and never seen you!” The reminder apparently doesn’t go over very well. Billy’s eyes narrow.

“Oh, I almost forgot. _You’re_ the freeloader Heather’s been sneaking free croissants to!”

“Yeah, looks like I am. And every single one of them was delicious!” 

Robin cackles at that, claps Steve’s shoulder and turns towards the back of the tent where her own, much smaller van waits.  
“I’m sad to miss the show, but I have a vet coming over soon to check on the goats. Billy.” She shifts, expression serious all of a sudden. “You better behave yourself. Or else you don’t get that jar of honey.” Billy sputters in response.

And with that, she’s off. Steve really wants to curse her out for keeping this from him until the last minute, but there’s not much to curse when she’s already driving away.

Awkward silence spreads. Billy sighs and goes back to setting up his own display while he completely ignores Steve’s existence.

There’s not much to do but wait for customers to arrive, so out of the corner of his eye Steve watches Billy cover his table with a bee-themed tablecloth and set up his display cases on top. 

Of course it’s bee-themed, he thinks. The bakery he’s been visiting every morning he’s had to go into town for check ups and physical therapy is called _Honeybear Bakery_ after all. And considering how Billy looks both a bit softer, yet still strong, it’s clear who the honey bear is supposed to be.

Billy’s movements are quick and methodical. He puts up another table behind him with crates full of bread loaves, bagels and smaller buns. Then he fills the displays in front of him with neatly arranged rows of cinnamon rolls, glazed donuts, big soft-baked chocolate chip cookies and of course the absolutely heavenly croissants.

It’s just a small selection of what Steve has seen at the actual bakery, yet it still blows his mind that Billy would be able to make all of this.

When the first customers come, he quickly notices that the pastries up front might attract the casual visitors, but it’s the regulars that come to get big loaves of bread. In the back of his mind he notes that he should get his hand on one himself.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to get distracted by his own customers, though. With the holiday season coming closer, many people are starting to look for fancy presents and according to Robin his ‘pretty looks will attract all those yuppie moms’.

Whenever he slips up, he gets a glimpse from the corner of his eye of Billy to his left. Hood finally down, his hair is long enough to be put up in a bun as wavy strands fall into his face.  
He _smiles_.  
At customers, granted.  
It makes Steve wish Billy could lighten up a little around him as well.

Despite their less than stellar introduction, Steve’s mouth still waters at the smell wafting over from right beside him. An hour before the market closes, the morning rush has faded a little and there’s only two croissants left in the display. He decides to brave Billy’s hostile attitude:

“So, uh. Billy.” Again with the suspicious look thrown his way. Whatever, Steve plows on. “Before everything’s sold, could you give me one of those croissants?”

“Seriously? You think you’re just getting handouts from me?” An angry flush on Billy’s cheeks momentarily distracts Steve when he notices the freckles it highlights all over Billy’s nose. He shakes his head.

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous.” Well, maybe he _was_ hoping for a free treat. But he’d rather not test Billy’s patience and get nothing at all. 

His hands have over the past hours become numb from the cold, so he awkwardly fumbles out three crumpled up dollar bills. Strokes them flat on the edge of the table, right next to the display and just leaves them there when Billy makes no move to take them. 

“See? You can keep the change as a tiny payback for the last one I got for free.” Wow. Steve internally smacks himself.

Billy growls. Straight up gives Steve the stink eye, then pulls out a pair of tongs and tugs out a gorgeous, perfectly browned croissant from the display. Without even looking in Steve’s direction, he holds it towards him. 

Carefully, Steve reaches out. Takes the offering. Lifts it to his mouth and bites into buttery, flaky heaven. His eyes close at that first bite and he lets out a small moan of pleasure. It’s exactly as delicious as last time he came to the bakery.

“Damn, that’s good,” he groans.

The blush on Billy’s cheeks could be from the cold. Could be from something else. Steve’s just about to get his hopes up when Billy turns his glare right back at him in full force. 

“Didn’t your parents teach you manners? How about a thank you, huh?”

Yeah, that red splotch on Billy’s face is definitely still from annoyance. 

“Geez, I was just about to,” Steve hastily soothes. “Thanks for the late breakfast.” 

Billy’s looks less than impressed. Clearly, he still holds some of that old animosity from their high school years. It’s kind of a shame with how gorgeous he is. When they were in school, they were constantly at each other’s throats. Competing at sports, at getting drunk, at getting the most girls.

Back then, it was easy to ignore how hot Billy was.  
Now, Steve’s had years of discovering his sexuality under his belt and wouldn’t mind too much if he could find out what Billy’s like in bed.

“Whatever.” Even in a foul mood, Steve can’t look away from him. A lot has changed. He’s a lot less boastful and mean, even though his reaction to Steve is familiar. Billy fumbles with his jacket sleeves, folds them up until his forearms are bare. He has what look like full tattoo sleeves all the way down to his wrists. 

Something in Steve’s brain short-circuits. 

“Why’s Buckley not here, anyways?” Billy finally asks, almost pouting. 

“Oh, you know. I’m her doppelgänger and replaced her. Do you think people will notice?”

“You’re not funny.”

“Alright, alright. Honestly? She could use the extra time to take care of chores. She seemed pretty swamped.” He laughs fondly at the thought of Robin’s hair in a bun, harried looking as she goes through her planner. “I never knew how much work goes into running a farm. And then there’s the whole soap business on top of it!” He gestures to the display in front of him. 

A lot of sales come from an online store Heather helps run, he’s been told. But the weekly markets are a good source of extra cash and a way to connect with customers.

“I’m running the stall for a bit. As compensation for her letting me crash at her place.” Billy eyes him suspiciously.

“That’s all it takes?”

“Well, we _have_ been friends for years.”

“Really? I never saw you together. Back uh. In high school.”

Steve feels a bit of shame rise in him. He wasn’t exactly a nice person back then. Certainly not someone Robin would’ve been friends with. “Yeah well. My dad made me work a summer job at an ice cream shop after graduation.” Of course the first grin Billy directs at him is at his expense. 

“Let me guess. He didn’t like how you barely passed.” Now it’s Steve’s turn to glare.

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in.” He runs his hand through his hair, longer than it’s ever been before, he notices absentmindedly. “Anyways, that’s where we met. And then the mall burned down and we got another job at this super old video rental together. And. I don’t know. We became friends in between.” 

He doesn’t like the next part. Working his ass off at college, just to get pushed into a shitty accounting job in his dad’s company. Billy can laugh all he wants about the person he used to know. He doesn’t get to judge Steve for what happened in his life after. He looks to the side, then to the ground. 

That final stretch before the market ends and they start packing up, it feels like some of that awkward silence has been lifted. Standing in the cold for hours has also turned Steve into a human popsicle by the time he’s finished stowing away leftovers in boxes and taken down their decorations.  
His feet ache.

His shoulder feels like he won’t be able to lift his arm to take down the tent. His heart sinks. Robin probably won’t mind, but still. It’s humiliating that such a small thing like lifting his arm suddenly becomes insurmountable.

All that frustration and helplessness must show, because the next thing he knows Billy stands next to him. Not quite touching, but close enough that Steve can get a front row seat to his teeth flashing in a familiar grin.

“No idea how to take down the tent?”

“Not really.” He’s reluctant to admit it, but he swallows his pride. There’s not much left of it nowadays anyways. “It’s just hard lifting my arm right now.” He rotates his shoulder experimentally and immediately winces at the strain. Not a good idea.

He expects Billy to scoff. Maybe roll his eyes and call him a princess, just like he used to back when Steve would complain about sports injuries.

Instead, he nods. Silently starts on dismantling the top parts. It’s weirdly kind and it makes Steve want to smile and maybe also tear up a little. He says a quiet “Thank you” and quietly gathers together tent parts Billy puts down for him.

~*~

Steve’s car is a rusty beemer that would’ve been fancy in the eighties, but is now in bad enough condition that he’s grateful the heater still works. It was cheap and works well enough to transport him for an hour-long drive from Robin’s place out in the middle of nowhere into town.

Before his physical therapy appointment the following Monday he hesitates for a moment before he parks in front of the Honeybear Bakery. He feels like he’s spent all of Sunday warming up again after Saturday’s market and only now has started to have enough energy again to leave the house.

Heather’s assured him that despite Billy’s attitude, Steve’s still welcome to drop by and get his free croissant.  
He’s tempted to just skip the visit.  
But the croissants are more tempting.

Through a thin mist of rain, he sprints across the street and through the entrance, greeted by a cheerful jingle. It’s a small, neat shop decked in cream and warm yellows, abstract shapes of sunflowers and bees on the walls. If Steve had a death wish, he’d probably call it reminiscent of kindergarten wall decorations.

It’s a shame he doesn’t have time to sit down on one of their cozy looking mustard yellow chairs with a coffee and his pastry of choice. Just lean back, look out of the window while he scrolls through the news. But he’s already had his egg breakfast, so he happily strolls up to the counter, expecting Heather to be there.

Instead, it’s Billy. Not wrapped in his thermal jacket, but in a light blue sweater and dark brown apron. Sleeves rolled up again. Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. Brushes his hair behind his ear.

“Good morning.” He’s kind of at a loss for words at hearing such a cheerful greeting all of a sudden. Billy somehow looks even better, broad shoulders filling out his sweater, leaning on the counter with his tattoos on display. Steve makes out swirls of flowers and plants, all done in shades of black. He’s definitely gotten a little chunkier, but much more comfortable with himself as well.

Still, there’s a familiar spark of danger in his eyes. Like a warning that just because he looks more approachable now doesn’t mean there isn’t danger underneath anymore.

Steve makes himself smile. “Hi. Good morning. Didn’t expect you to be at the front.”

“Oh, I bet you didn’t.” Billy sure looks proud of himself for having caught Steve. “So, what can I get you?” Steve wants to pout a little. Ah well. No free croissant for him today.

“An espresso and a croissant, please.” He minds his manners this time, even if he desperately wants to ask Billy how long he’s been staked out at the counter. From what Heather has told him, the only times Billy willingly works the front end is at the markets.

“Anything else?” Steve’s kind of strapped for cash, so he shakes his head. He hasn’t really allowed himself to fantasize about the selection here, just because it feels cruel to himself. He does allow himself a short glance at the spinach and feta cheese muffins, just to shake his head at Billy.

“No, thank you.”

Of course Billy rings him up for both his coffee and croissant. While they wait for the espresso machine to finish, Billy starts on bagging up Steve’s croissant. Heather’s voice floats towards them from the back: “Is Steve here already?”

She comes out from an inconspicuous door next to the display, apron covered in flour, hair held back by a bandana. “Aw Billy, you didn’t have to,” she protests when she sees him behind the counter.

“Well, it’s my shop. Can’t let a customer go without service.” His smile has that little edge to it again, like he knows exactly what he’s doing even as he cranks up the charm. 

Heather rolls her eyes and faux-whispers towards Steve “ _Someone_ thinks he’s gonna get eaten out of house and home over two measly pastries.”

Just then, the espresso machine beeps and she pushes past Billy to get Steve his coffee. “I don’t know how, but you always make a mess,” she admonishes and hands Steve his tiny cup. 

When he looks at Billy for confirmation, he shrugs. “There’s a reason I don’t run a coffee shop. We have one machine and whatever comes out is what you get.” The bag he hands over the counter is a bit heavier than just Steve’s regular order, but before he can ask, Billy shoos him towards the door. “Now get out, Harrington.”

Through misty rain, over the street and into his car, Steve still feels hung up on that whole interaction. Tucked into his seat, he feels that unusually heavy bag and opens it to an additional spinach and cheese muffin.

For once, he goes to physical therapy with his belly filled with warmth, instead of anxiety.

~*~

After three weeks of working at the stall, Steve finds that he likes the market despite the cold. Young moms buying honey-scented soap, an old man getting a jar of Robin’s apparently famous preserved plums.

“She makes them even better than Edith, may she rest in peace,” he tells Steve. “But don’t let my wife know I said that!” He winks and heads off with his grocery bag swinging cheerfully.

It’s a good day. Not as windy, no nightmares to sap Steve’s mental strength. Even his shoulder has been less achy all day.

And to Steve’s left, Billy is busy as well. It’s hard to pay attention to him with a new customer coming over for a serving of mulled wine or to check out the pretty soaps. 

But he can still hear the sound of Billy’s voice, interwoven with the chatter of people around them. It’s grounding.

No matter whatever animosity has carried over from a high school rivalry of years past, it feels like they’ve been warming up to each other a lot more with each interaction at the bakery and each market spent right next to each other.  
Billy has made it a point to not so sneakily add a different pastry to all of Steve’s orders, so he can’t be totally mad at his existence.

This weekend’s market is supposed to last until evening, though, and the moment the temperatures drop when it gets darker, Steve regrets not getting a better jacket. He should’ve known better.

“You okay?” Billy’s tone might be considered less irritable. It’s hard to tell when Steve’s focused on trying to sap as much warmth as possible from standing close to the pot filled with hot mulled wine.

“Oh, I don’t know. Just freezing my ass off.”

“I think your ass is the least of your problems when it comes to freezing.”

“Are you calling me fat?!” It’s true that it’s gotten a bit bigger, but he’s still in shape! He feels himself heat up a little just from the embarrassment. Billy straight up leers at him.

“Don’t be such a baby. We’re almost finished with the day and then you can get back inside.”

Despite him looking like he’s making fun of Steve the entire time, Billy’s words still lift his mood up. Just a bit. 

The end of the market rolls around when night has properly fallen and one by one, stalls go dark as everyone packs up. Steve shouts good-byes to a couple of other stall owners he’s gotten to talk to. Mr. Wilson with his massive glasses of pickled cucumbers and onions and beets. Paula with locally made cheese and yogurt. Maja, another farmer who sells veggies from her greenhouse.

They’re all nice people who ask barely any questions. Mostly they like to gossip all about their neighbors’ drama instead, all while Billy pretends he isn’t listening. By the tightening around his eyes when he tries to suppress a smile, Steve can see right through him. 

He remembers the process of how to pack up any remaining products for transportation by heart by now. He’s done it enough times that he no longer feels like a bumbling idiot when he packs away leftover products and unplugs the stove top.

In theory, it should be easy to do. He knows the steps. Knows he’s supposed to start on packing up now, because he wants to be finished when Robin arrives. Around him, everyone is just about finished while he’s still taking his time.

The dismantling isn’t an issue. He _knows_ how to do it. It’s his shoulder that has started acting up again. Of course he knew it hadn't quite healed, that he’s more sensitive to the cold simply because it takes time to get used to it.

And now here he is, halfway done with no Robin in sight and slowing down fast as the ache spreads from his shoulder to his arm and down his back. He grits his teeth. 

“Where’s Buckley?” Of course Billy’s almost done already. Steve allows himself a pause so he can answer. And maybe also to admire how fluidly Billy moves as he packs up his stand. That’s what multitasking is, right?

“She said she’d be here a bit later.”

“Hm. She shouldn’t take her time when it’s this dark and cold out.”

It’s one of those comments he makes sometimes. The kind that makes Steve feel like maybe, possibly, he kinda cares.

As he continues putting things away he pushes through those growing pulses of hot pain. At least everything else is cold.

Just as Billy finishes up, Steve gets a call from Robin. 

“Hey dingus. Is Billy still there?”

He waves in Billy’s direction, watches as he comes closer with a frown.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t expect the vet to take this long. I’ll ask Billy to help get you home, he still owes me.”

“Well fuck. Is everything alright with the goats?”

“Oh yeah, they’re all fine. Minnow is growing up nicely and Holly has recovered really well from her last birth. We can probably have her have another baby next year.” Robin sounds excited. The goats are cute, admittedly. “So, apart from all the thrilling goat news,” Steve snorts, “how’s your shoulder?” He winces.

“Honestly? Not great,” he admits. “It’s doable, but I’ll need to pop a painkiller tonight.

And then there’s Billy. Cheeks flushed from loading up the van, hair slightly sweat matted and approaching Steve with a confident, settled gait, he looks gorgeous. 

“Robin wants to talk to you.” He hands Billy the phone and feels a bit like a kid watching two adults talk. 

It’s clear Robin explains the situation to Billy, because he lets out a beleaguered sigh.

“So now you want me to play babysitter? He hasn’t even finished-” Whatever he tries to say in protest gets interrupted by Robin on the other end. Steve’s been on that end in the past. When Robin really wants to be persuasive, she can convince someone it was _their_ idea in the first place to help her out.

When Billy hangs up, he gives Steve a stare that’s got a clear no-nonsense attitude. “Be honest. How bad is your shoulder?”

Steve squirms. “You heard me on the phone.”

“Yeah, and I don’t believe a word coming outta your mouth when it comes to that shoulder of yours.” He angles his head towards the van. “Get inside. Start up the engine and warm up.”

“Ugh. Alright, fine.” Steve doesn’t want to be grateful. Doesn’t want to feel relieved when he finally gets to sit down and the heating kicks in. He’s just so tired. The inside of Billy’s van smells of pastries and something else. Maybe a hint of that woodsy perfume he smells of sometimes.  
Steve closes his eyes. Just for a moment.

He wakes to the sound of the engine springing to life and a warm hand ruffling his hair. It starts out rough and quickly turns slow and careful, like Billy didn’t expect the softness of Steve’s hair.

“Put on your seat belt.” Billy doesn’t sound mad. His voice is a little rough, like he’s a bit tired by now as well. _Almost_ fond.

Steve stretches into a long line, even if it aches. Turns towards Billy just in time to see his eyes drift down to the strip of skin revealed at Steve’s belly. Ah. Billy’s head whips away and Steve secures himself, feeling smug just from that tiny bit of attention.

~*~

It’s the fifth week that Steve mans the stall. Rain comes down hard on them and all they do is miserably cling to their respective mugs of spiked mulled wine. Billy finally seems to properly warm up to Steve.

The day starts off even greyer than usual and the weather report has promised rain and iced-over streets by the end of the day. Set-up is slow going even with Steve’s shoulder steadily recovering. He feels miserable just looking at the sky- and then he spots Billy. 

Even with his occasionally still grumpy, cautious attitude towards Steve, he’s a sight to behold.

They bicker over Steve’s free croissant. They share the thermos of coffee Steve’s brought, both of them preferring it black. It’s the first time Steve makes Billy laugh, with his stupid Kermit impression of all things.

He has a nightmare that night. The same one that’s followed him throughout all these weeks. The one that’s made his bad days worse and his good days come slower than normal. It’s metal and blood and the overwhelming, all encompassing knowledge that he’s going to die.

When he wakes up, heart beating out of his chest, his hand moves to his dresser. It settles on leather. He’s safe. For now.

~*~

The little office space Robin has set up for Steve is cozy. A window looks out towards her orchard, where Robin tells him the plum blossoms will look gorgeous in spring. He can’t wait to see them. It’s rapidly getting dark outside now, after he’s enjoyed the sight of a proper sunset for once.

She’s told him how she still can’t believe her luck that her aunt took her in and willed the entire farm to her. They were never related by blood, but all those summers Robin spent with Edith, all that love she’s inherited for this place flows through her. It’s what Steve sees every day, infused into her very being.  
And that happiness spreads, to him and even more so to Heather.

The idea for him to help out with bookkeeping while he searches for a job has been a godsend. He’s got Heather to thank for it, for getting to really work his way through numbers and expenses. Of getting to make sense of all the chaos in Robin’s space.

It’s not that he particularly loves bookkeeping. He just likes to do a job where he doesn’t have to like what he does to be good at it. He simply likes that it comes to him with ease.

With a sigh, he leans back in his chair and basks in that little bubble of safety. Tomorrow, he’s going to start on that work. Today, he simply waits for Billy to arrive, since he’s been invited for dinner. 

Steve hasn’t cooked a proper, big meal in a while. He wants to say thank you for everything his friends have done for him.  
And, well. Maybe show off a little. Just the thought of Billy eating something Steve has made for a change makes him a little giddy. He’ll show him that he’s not the only one who can make delicious food!

There’s a movement outside. Right in the orchard. He can feel goosebumps form on his arms. And then he sees him. A man, holding something underneath his coat.

It’s a familiar stance. All warmth bleeds out of Steve’s veins.

What’s left is icy cold clarity: He needs to get out.

In a fluid motion, Steve slides to the floor, out sight of the window. Carefully, he sneaks into the hallway and towards his room where he grabs his one safety from the bedside table and his coat.

There’s only one way this can go and he doesn’t want it to happen in Robin’s precious home. He won’t.

So out he goes.

He wanders away from the house, last remnants of dusk following along. It’s hard to think clearly when everything in him screams to run, run faster, get out of the open.

There’s a chicken coop. A tiny, well-isolated stable for the goats. And a big, drafty stable used for storing equipment. Steve chooses the latter to hide.

Before he can get far inside, the one single lightbulb hanging high up in the ceiling bathes everything in dim light and deep shadows. He knows the man has caught up with him. It’s like Steve’s own little spotlight shines above him.

He wants to laugh. Or maybe cry.

“Harrington, right? I’m just here to get you back home. Get you to help us with some of that mess your father left behind.” An unfamiliar face. Before the man can lift his hands, Steve has slipped his gun from the holster he’s kept all this time. The only memento he’s got left from his family. And it’s the same fucking weapon that’s almost killed him.

He flicks off the safety. Lifts the gun with both his hands as he spreads his stance. Cold metal. He relaxes his shoulders. Fires once and takes the small kickback with ease, adrenaline muting whatever pain he might feel later in his shoulder.

Of course he doesn’t hit. He's too good a shot for that.

The gun in his hands shakes, but he keeps his fingers off the safety. He doesn’t actually want to kill the guy. Just scare him off. 

“I can’t go back. I can’t." His voice shakes. "You know that, right? My dad dismantled everything. Bit by bit. All I could do was watch as he got ready to leave.”

“So you didn’t help him hide his assets? You think we believe that? Didn’t your father tell you anything?!”

The laugh that rips out of Steve’s throat is pure reflex. Incredulity laced with pain as old as he can remember. There’s tears streaming down his face, he distantly registers.

“Everything I had, I already gave up. He made me work and then he made me push papers and he never let me forget that I was never gonna be good enough to be his heir.” This is his only shot at convincing whoever is after him that he's not worth it. He can't mess this up.

An exasperated sigh is the man's answer. “Kid. Just calm down.”

There’s a noise at the back of the barn. Steve can’t concentrate on it. All that matters is that he keeps his eyes trained on the threat and his grip from slipping. He doesn’t want to kill the guy. Doesn’t want to shoot him at all.

After all, he knows how much it hurts.

His shoulder aches.

The guy in front of him is just a messenger. He _needs_ him to send the right message.

Then he sees it. In the shadows behind the messenger stands Billy. He lifts a finger to his lips, then slowly sneaks closer. A deep rush of relief wells up in Steve. He’s not alone in this.

But he needs to distract the messenger first and finish giving him his message.

“I got shot for working for my dad. I played his little games and entertained his guests like a well trained dog, without ever being good enough. And he didn’t come back.” He takes one deep, shuddering breath. Billy has almost sneaked up behind the messenger.

“Go back to your bosses and let them know that this is a dead end. I didn’t get treated like an afterthought to my family to get killed for them.”

The guy nods. Whether he’s doing so because he understands or because he just wants to get out of here alive doesn’t matter.  
Billy’s arm closes around his throat and in a practiced motion he chokes him out. Steve lowers his gun until it points to the ground.

“Fucking hell, Harrington,” Billy swears as he lowers the man’s unconscious body to the floor. “You’re nothing but trouble.” Steve noisily sniffs. 

“Yeah, well. I didn’t mean to be.”

There’s that softness in Billy’s eyes again. That disbelief in his tone, like he’s amazed at the truth in Steve’s words. “I know, pretty boy. C’mere.” He steps right into his space. Body heat comes off him like a furnace.

“I’m surprised you never used that move on me when we fought,” Steve tries to joke, even when his voice wobbles tellingly. Billy’s arms close around him.

“Nah. My dad was already dead set on making me his cleaner. I wasn’t gonna give him the satisfaction of using all that training on a spoiled brat like you.” There's affection in Billy's voice.

Steve buries his face in Billy’s neck, where it’s warm and dark and smells like his sweat and faintly of perfume and baked goods. A reminder that even now, Billy never became the weapon his father tried to turn him into.

They stay like that for a moment. Then Billy leans back far enough so he can make eye contact. “We have to put him in his car and drive it out of town. He should be fine until he wakes up if we wrap him in a thermal blanket.” 

It doesn’t take long. Despite feeling like the confrontation dragged on forever, the actual conversation and subsequent cleanup of the guy’s unconscious body, driving his car to the edge of town near a gas station- it’s all over within the same hour.

Billy makes Steve follow him in the messenger’s car behind his own, to a spot he picks to park in until the guy wakes up and can drive home. Steve’s sure Billy would rather his existence wasn’t revealed to the people who wanted to follow up on Steve.

He switches over to Billy’s car when they’re done. There’s a pause, like Billy wants to say something. He starts driving instead. 

Forest flies by, so similar to their shitty hometown, yet completely different. Steve likes it here. Likes that he’s not alone anymore in this place. That there’s this thing building between him and Billy, no longer filled with animosity and reluctant attraction at its core. 

He’s been feeling these past weeks like something inside him has finally started to defrost. And now he’s a little squishy and vulnerable, craves that warmth he feels around his friends and, shockingly, _Billy_ so much more than ever before. He doesn’t want that to end. He still feels safe here. Weirdly, he almost feels safer than before, when he was constantly plagued by fears about what-if scenarios,

“So when were you gonna tell me your family has given up its life of crime and you didn’t come here to rub it in my face that you’d found me?” Billy finally breaks their silence.

“I- Oh!” Confusion makes way to understanding fast. “I mean, I figured Heather would’ve told you.”

Billy sighs in exasperation. “No. Of course she didn't. Out all the things to happen, the prissiest pretty boy of Hawkins’ most notorious family turning up here was not what I expected.”

Steve covers his face with his palms, feeling his stomach sink. Rubs over his eyes. He’s so tired.

“I’m sorry, Billy. I’ll see if I can leave town-”

“Steve. No.” The car stops. There’s that warm hand again, closing around his wrist, dragging his hand off his face.

And then there’s Billy. Bright, beautiful eyes glittering dangerous and hungry.

“This thing between us? I want that. I want _you_. You can’t leave.”

It’s a devastating, impossible to avoid collision when their lips meet. Steve knows it was a certainty waiting to happen the moment they met. That no matter how much they’ve denied it in the past, this?

This beautiful, painfully happy feeling coursing through him when Billy draws him close? It’s been inevitable.

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning for non graphic gun violence
> 
> MASSIVE SPOILER
> 
> additional content tags: Alternate Universe - Mob, ptsd


End file.
